Chapter 1
790 Words
Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts – Late Autumn
The wind is sharp, carrying golden leaves in whirls across the old brick courtyard. Students rush by in coats and scarves, earbuds in, minds on midterms.
INT. – HARVARD CAMPUS – DAY
Bianca Lawson sits on the bench, a psychology textbook open on her lap, though her eyes haven’t turned a page in five minutes. She’s dressed smart—thrift store chic with crisp edges and purpose—but her expression is thoughtful, like she’s holding her breath and trying not to show it.
Her phone buzzes. A message from her mom:
Mom: “Don’t forget to eat. That brain needs fuel.”
Bianca smiles, typing a quick reply:
Bianca: “Already had a bagel and judgmental coffee from the library café.”
She looks up as a sleek black car pulls up across the quad. Out steps Takumi James Saito—all polished confidence in tailored layers, his jet-black hair styled just enough to look like he didn’t try. He carries himself like he was born on the cover of a business magazine.
Students turn. Some whisper. He’s that guy.
James walks toward her with purpose, stopping a few feet away. Bianca shuts her book but doesn’t stand.
BIANCA (teasing)
“Didn’t peg you for a guy who strolls across campus like a K-drama finale.”
JAMES (smirking)
“You were hard to find. I asked three people, two gave directions. One just sighed dreamily.”
BIANCA
“You’re not humble, are you?”
JAMES
“Not when I’m around someone who clearly deserves better coffee.”
He holds out a drink—a proper café latte, the kind she can never justify in her budget. She eyes it with mock suspicion.
BIANCA
“This a bribe?”
JAMES
“This is an apology. For missing our last study session. My mother ambushed me with a ten-hour Zoom call about ‘appropriate life choices.’”
BIANCA
“Let me guess… I wasn’t on the list?”
A beat. He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes soften.
JAMES
“You’re not what she expected.”
BIANCA (brows raised)
“Because I’m Black? Or because I’m not a legacy with a building named after me?”
JAMES
“Both. But I’m not what she expected either.”
She studies him, quiet now.
BIANCA
“Then I guess we’ve both got something to prove.”
---
A month before
Intro to Cognitive Psychology Lecture Hall – Week 2 Semester
POV: James Takumi Saito
The lecture hall smelled like burnt coffee and ambition.
James adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as he slid into a seat near the center—three rows from the front, directly in line with the professor. Not too eager. Just serious enough. His mother taught him that presentation wasn’t about arrogance—it was control. It was branding. It was making others believe you belonged before you even spoke.
And yet…
His attention drifted two rows down, to the girl who always showed up two minutes before class started, earbuds in, spiral notebook instead of a laptop. No monogrammed tote bags or designer lenses. Just a ripped denim jacket and a sharp, tired focus like she didn’t have time for distractions. Or people like him.
Bianca. He learned her name when the professor returned the first quiz aloud by last name, and she corrected him when he mispronounced it. She said it with calm steel.
“It’s Lawson. Not Lawton. There’s a difference.”
She hadn't looked at James once since day one, and he couldn't stop watching her.
Not in the obvious way. Not the way some guys stared like they were choosing from a menu. No—he watched her annotate her notes in the margins, not just underline but rewrite entire definitions in her own words. He noticed she only raised her hand when she had something worth saying. He noticed that she listened to everyone but trusted no one’s answer but her own.
She didn’t know who he was. Or if she did, she didn’t care.
He liked that too much.
The professor launched into a lecture on memory formation, but James found himself scribbling a note in his own notebook:
Ask Bianca Lawson if she wants to study together. Pretend it's about neuroscience. Try not to sound like a stalker.
He scratched it out. Started again.
Lawson. Study partner. Professional reasons. Mostly.
And that was the beginning. Not fireworks. Not a meet-cute. Just a quiet gravity pulling him in—and a voice in the back of his head whispering She doesn’t fit your world.
But for the first time in years, he found himself wondering if maybe it was his world that needed to change.
- Writer
